BCE — Before Commanding Empires
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: Before commanding empires, England and France were weak, frightened, and alone. As father-figures to America and Canada, they needed to be strong; the boys couldn't know about the past. Together they would protect the boys: "I don't want them to suffer as we did," said England. "Non," France agreed, remembering the darkness of his childhood. "Neither do I." (FACE family :)
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**B.C.E.**

**BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character relationships. All countries will be called by their present-day names rather than their historic names to avoid confusion.

For those of you who would prefer to read _B.C.E. – Before Commanding Empires_ in Chinese, please visit the link on my Profile homepage.

Thank-you and best wishes to the lovely and talented translator, The eleventh moon :D

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**19th CENTURY**

England sighed. He was too old to be raising young children and his head pounded with the certainty of that fact. He pinched the bridge of his freckled nose, brow creased, and held up a hand to silence them (they were so loud!). "I don't care who started it," he said, piqued. He glared down at the two nearly identical boys, both scowling, conveying his displeasure while simultaneously trying to maintain an authoritative presence. "You've disappointed us, America, Canada," he said sternly, wagging his finger ineffectually at them. The boys blinked up at him, unconvinced. England glanced at France for support.

"Oui, your behaviour has been undignified and unacceptable. Angleterre and I are ashamed," France said in a practiced tone, planting his hands on his hips. He pierced the boys with a pointed look, trying to intimidate them, but his blue eyes betrayed the lie. He was not ashamed of either of them and the boys knew it. They fed off it like the spoiled young colonies they were.

"You're going to march yourselves straight back in there and apologize," England ordered. "America, don't give me that look," he warned. America crossed his arms and lifted his chin, nose scrunched in (adorable) defiance; he wasn't much taller than the average six-year-old, but already his presence was dramatic and demanded attention. "Canada, _now_," England prompted, shifting his gaze. Canada stood rooted to the spot, cold and silent, and wearing an unnervingly emotionless expression on his pale face. Despite his characteristic passiveness, his temper was the worse when provoked. _Damn stubborn kids_! England raged in frustration. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to remain calm. _Whatever happened to walloping disobedient children_?

"You're making Angleterre and I très unhappy," France tried, playing good-cop. "I know you don't always get along with the European children"—despite their charismatic attitudes, the North American brothers were rather antisocial (France blamed their geographic isolation and England's possessiveness)—"but that is no reason to start a fight with them. It makes us, your guardians, look bad," he said. However, the boys had never really appreciated the benefit of having a good reputation:

"I don't care!" America spat, stomping his foot. "They deserved it! They called us un-un—"

"Uncivilized," Canada finished quietly.

"And your retaliation was to start a fight like two barbarians settling an argument?" England frowned. "I sincerely hope you see the irony in that."

"I don't care!" America repeated earnestly. "I hate them! They're all so con-con—"

"Condescending," Canada inserted.

"—and they think they're better than us! It's stupid— _they're_ stupid!" America shouted. Canada nodded.

England exchanged a glance with France, who sighed. "Fine. If you're not going to apologize and behave like civilized colonies, then you can go straight to bed."

"_Wha_—?" America gaped. Canada frowned in confusion. They had, of course, been expecting the complete surrender of their over-indulgent parents, assuming—like spoiled, self-obsessed children—that their guardians would not punish them because they _loved them too much_.

"If you're going to behave like brats, expecting to be coddled instead of punished, I'm afraid you're wrong," said England, matter-of-fact. "Now I'm going to ask you one last time: Will you apologize?"

* * *

France finished tucking the boys into bed—red-faced and scowling, threatening angry tears—and closed the nursery door behind him. "Do you really think they started it?" he asked England, who was lighting a cigarette.

The Englishman flipped his cigarette-lighter closed, inhaled deeply, then blew-out smoke. "Undoubtedly."

France frowned: "Why?"

England looked skeptically at him, an eyebrow cocked. "They're wild. They've never had rules imposed upon them before and they're resisting the change. I love them, you know I do, but when I decided to become their parent I became responsible for their well-being, to colonize and civilize them; to tame the wildness. They're young. I'm not at all surprised that they're resisting, it's natural. But they'll get used to living under someone else's rule soon enough. God knows we both did."

"Are you saying that you _liked_ being ruled, Angleterre, being bullied by Rome? By your older brothers?"

"No, I didn't _like_ it," England corrected. "But I endured it. In hindsight, it made me who I am today."

"An unpleasant, self-righteous, know-it-all dick?" France shrugged.

England narrowed his forest-green eyes at his rival in challenge. "I'm not saying that I don't have scars— just like you do, don't deny it. But I'll be damned if I subject America and Canada to the same torment we had to endure. It's not like your childhood was any better than mine, but I don't want that for the boys. They've been born into a very different time than we were and I'm glad for it. They've been born into an era of infinite possibilities and I'll cultivate that if I can for their benefit. I might not be the best father-figure, but I don't want them to suffer as we did."

"Non," France agreed solemnly. "Neither do I."


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**B.C.E.**

**BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES**

* * *

**ONE**

**ROME'S HOUSE**

The two soldiers—big, steel-clad sentries carrying long pilums—held the boy's slight biceps, marching him like a prisoner into the capital. It was unlike any place he had ever seen before, surrounded by thick walls so high that they touched the sky. It was loud and crowded and bustling with activity; men, women, and children too busy with their business to spare a second glance at the newcomer. There was no doubt on their suntanned faces; they knew exactly who they were and what their patron represented. The boy whipped his head from left-to-right, trying to memorize everything he saw. It was a famous, rich city meant to impress, and it did—even the roads were paved!

"Face forward, boy," said a soldier, jostling him. They pulled him up several flights of steep steps and into a sprawling palace. He stared in awe at the architecture and pristine sculptures adorning the interior as he was paraded into a long, carpeted hall, where they stopped before a dais.

"Welcome to Rome," said the man lounging upon it. He was a sun-browned man with broad shoulders and thick, well-muscled limbs—arms and legs bared by his clothes—and big, callused hands. He had a handsome, sculpted face with deep-set amber eyes. Yet, despite his kingly persona—the arrogant cock of his head and lazy half-smile—he did not embody the terrible, ambitious Empire the boy had expected. In fact, he felt rather relieved by Rome's cavalier nature. "What's your name, child?" Rome asked, dismissing the soldiers. They bowed and left them alone.

"France," he said, looking directly at Rome. He didn't want Rome to think that he was weak, or afraid.

"Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he said knowledgeably. France nodded, then felt a stab of nerves as Rome cocked his index finger, gesturing him forward. "You're such a pretty child," he said, examining France's slight figure; measuring the strength in his youthful limbs, his slender waist; fingering the boy's silky, ash-blonde curls. He held his breath as Rome's callused thumb brushed his high cheekbones, his angular jaw, and full lips; staring intently into his sapphire-blue eyes. Then he smiled, and said: "Do you understand what has become of you, France? Your homeland belongs to me now." Tenderly he cupped the boy's cheek. "But I don't want you to be afraid of me. You'll like living here, I'll take good care of you." In good-faith he clapped his hands: "First let's get you bathed and fed, and"—he rubbed France's coarse tunic between his fingers—"find you something nicer to wear." Grandly he stood, stretched his powerful arms, and then extended his hand. "Come with me, young France."

Cautiously France looked up at him: Rome, the largest, most famous Empire in the world. France was young and naive about Empires, but he wasn't stupid; he knew how much Rome could support and teach him if he stayed. It would be mutually beneficial. Decidedly, he reached out and took Rome's outstretched hand: "Okay."

* * *

France, this is Spain and Portugal," said Rome, introducing them. "They're your foster-brothers, both belong to me as well. You've got much in common," he smiled, placing a hand on France and Spain's shoulders. "I'm sure you'll all be the best of friends. Take care of each other," he added, then left.

France surveyed Spain: a handsome, sun-kissed boy with dark hair and emerald-green eyes; he was smiling in a friendly way. _Totally clueless_, France thought, not unkindly. Then he looked at Portugal: a long-haired, youthful boy with intense, bright green eyes. _He looks untrustworthy_, France thought, but didn't know why. They in turn were staring expectedly at him. "Bonjour, mes amis," he said politely, extending his hand. Spain clasped it between both of his, shaking energetically; his touch was pleasantly warm.

"Hola, amigo," he grinned. Portugal nodded silently in greeting.

They spent the next few weeks together, getting to know one another as roommates and foster-brothers; they had a lot in common, despite their difference in heritage. It didn't take France long to determine that he really liked Spain—his naivety and giddy, sunshine smile. He was such a vibrant personality, yet he preferred the simple things in life, like farming (he loved tending to Rome's gardens). Portugal usually tagged along, but, somewhat younger than his fellows, he was much less invested in the friendship. He often rolled his eyes as France and Spain carried on, laughing together about an inside-joke. Especially during Rome's lessons, which he taught rather infrequently. Usually the boys were taught by an underling of the Roman Empire because Rome was too busy ("which means he's napping, eating, drinking, or bedding women," France translated, somewhat admiringly. He and Spain had started to think of Rome as a role-model). "He really knows exactly who he is, doesn't he?" France said, and Spain agreed.

One day France and Spain were walking back from afternoon lessons when they spotted a stranger in the gardens. He was an olive-skinned brunette with an absent expression and earthy-green eyes that always looked thoughtful, philosophical. "Bonjour," said France, waving. "Qui êtes-vous?"

The young man looked at France and Spain, and blinked: "Greece," he said. "I brought an olive tree for the garden," he added, gesturing to the healthy, knee-high tree.

"Gracias!" said Spain, happily taking the potted tree.

France glanced between them, then remembered Portugal. _Everyone has green eyes and brown hair except for me_, he realized, recognizing the physical and cultural similarities between the Mediterranean nations. Curiously he took Spain's hand and studied the difference: _I'm so much paler than they are_. _My fingers are longer and thinner_.

"You have an artist's hands, France," Rome said when asked. Kindly he took France's hand and held it in his. "These hands are not meant to toil in the earth, digging and plowing; nor made to fish. They are suited to much more delicate work, to tie grape-vines. I'm going to teach you how to cultivate and make wine," he suggested. "It'll make you _very_ popular, I promise." He winked. He left France under the tutelage of his Master wine-makers in Northern Italy with instructions to teach the boy everything they knew. France observed and learned the basics quite fast—he was a clever child, eloquent in his learning—and, soon enough, he was brewing his own recipes, teaching himself. Rome was rather pleased by the boy's initiative, and delighted by the various wines he produced.

As promised, his talent did not go unnoticed. France's popularity continued to grow. He was already a lively, flamboyant child with a pretty face and a sweet-tempered climate; the fact that he could make exceptionally fine wine was a bonus. France enjoyed the attention, smiling and playing the role forced upon him: Rome's charming accessory. He sat beside his foster-father at banquets and festivals, learning to dance as Spain played a lute; smiling and giggling as people flattered him, took his hands and spun him around. He gushed when Rome introduced them to his two newborn grandsons:

"Mes frères bébés, they're so cute! May I hold one of them, please?" he asked, lifting the closest Italian baby. "Bonjour, mon petit. I'm your big brother," he said, tickling the baby's belly. Italy giggled in delight as France bounced him. "Je adore les bébés," he cooed.

"Oh, me too," said Spain, holding Italy's older brother. The baby sputtered and frowned, pouting adorably. "Hola hermanito— no, no, don't cry!" he rocked the baby, singing softly. Romano blinked big, hazel eyes and cracked a smile. He reached up and yanked Spain's hair, wanting to touch it, then giggled at the look on Spain's surprised face.

Rome collected his grandsons and foster-children into his arms and hugged them, embracing them with the warmth, richness, and protection of the entire Roman Empire. He threw a lavish banquet to show-off his conquests, letting his guests fawn over their beauty and accomplishments. France enjoyed the attention, the flattery; he was a naturally charismatic person and performer. Naively, he felt safe in Rome's house—he had been spoiled for too long. He didn't recognize manipulation and depravity for what it was, as long as everyone wore a smile. Young as he was—a preteen—he didn't comprehend what was happening when Rome cocked his finger for Egypt, whispering into his ear; or when Turkey cornered Greece, speaking lowly and lifting his chin. France and his foster-brothers merely celebrated with everyone else, and Rome indulged them, feeding the boys wine until they were flushed and had to be carried up to bed. The foster-brothers slept together, guarded by Roman sentries. The Romans loved the young boys. They often snuck into the room late at night and woke them, wanting to tease them and play with them; wanting to touch them. It was affectionate, or so France believed.

The Romans loved what France could give them. And what they could take from him.

* * *

It's alright France, don't be afraid," said the sentry, who was supposed to be guarding them. He was big and powerful, the pride of his patron's reputation. But Rome wouldn't have condoned such manipulative behaviour; Rome was—if nothing else—straightforward with his intentions. "Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he said, touching France's cheek gently. "You'll submit to we Romans, we'll civilize you; teach you," he leaned closer. Heart pounding, France tried to move away from him, but the sentry grasped him. Four of his fellows stood behind him, holding Spain. "France is such a beautiful, fertile country, perfect for Roman cultivation, don't you agree?" His hand slipped beneath France's robe, and the boy panicked. He fought the sentry, but futilely. Soon enough, he found himself leaning over the bed's edge, exposed from the waist down. In disbelief, he bit back tears; drawing blood. He wouldn't let them break him; he wouldn't yell or cry. But they were mean-spirited; they _wanted_ to hurt him, took pleasure in it. "Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he repeated in mockery; his fellows laughed. "You're just barbarians in need of subduing. Let us teach you submission, boy." Indelicately he forced his hard cock into France's body, pushing his head down. France clawed at the hands holding him, but to little effect; it only egged the Romans on. He could hear Spain screaming at them, begging them to stop: "Leave France alone!" but they ignored him, promising that he was next.

France fisted his hands, clenching the bed-sheets, and squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt— _It hurts so badly_! but though his body trembled, taking abuse, he swallowed his cries. He could feel the Romans invading his homeland. They slaughtered and raped his people, pillaged and plundered, and burnt settlements to the ground. As each sentry took a turn abusing his body, so too could he feel them abusing his country. He never stopped trying to fight back, but they held him in a compromising position as they laughed and sneered, mocking his attempts to defend himself and his homeland. He could hear Spain crying, shrieking loudly for Rome. France was terrified that they would hurt Spain as well: _No— don't hurt Spain_,_ please don't_! he panicked, even as pain radiated throughout his body.

Finally the abuse ended and he was left on the floor, curled-up and holding his bruised ribs; shaking; his legs splayed and sticky with blood-mixed-semen. "N-no—" he said softly, reaching out as the sentry's approached Spain. He was sobbing, his emerald-green eyes wide and fearful. "Please don't hurt him—"

A loud, booming voice interrupted Spain's sobs: "Stop it at once! What is the meaning of this?! I demand to know what is happening here!" Rome's formidable figure filled the doorway, big and strong and angry; his amber eyes looked like wildfire as he glared at the sentries, who quaked beneath his wrath. He stalked forward like a wolf and grabbed the nearest sentry by the neck, then flung him aside. "You're supposed to protect them! Your orders were to scout and conquer and colonize their lands, not— _this_!" he raged, shoving more of them aside. "How dare you take advantage of those under _my_ protection! How dare you abuse my foster-sons!" Reaching Spain, he pulled the boy into a tight embrace, kneeling to look at him eye-to-eye. In a softer tone, he said: "My child, are you hurt?" searching Spain's tear-streaked face for signs of misuse. Spain hiccuped in relief and clung to Rome's robe. He shook his head, then wordlessly pointed to France. France met Rome's eyes and felt simultaneously afraid and ashamed. Rome's face contorted, looking murderous. "Leave us— _now_!" he roared. The sentries didn't need to be told twice; they ran from the bedchamber. "France," said Rome in disbelief. He looked ashen-faced as he approached. "My poor, sweet child, what have they done to you?"

France flinched at Rome's touch and buried his face. He wanted to run and hide, to escape this humiliation; he didn't want Rome to see him cry. But he couldn't move. His body ached: raped and beaten.

Rome's hand hovered over France's soft head, wanting to touch him; to comfort him, but he didn't. At a loss, he hugged Spain closer in grief. He shook his head, and softly said: "France... I'm so sorry."

France's voice trembled: "Laisse moi seul." _Just leave me alone_.

* * *

**FRANCE**

In the dead of night France left Rome's house. He ran away as fast as he could, taking nothing with him, and without looking back, and did not stop until he reached his native soil. He hid from Rome's influence, dodging his attempts to find and reconcile with the young, embittered boy. He crawled to the banks of the Seine and finally stopped, feeling tired. There he discarded the fine clothes Rome had given him, exchanging them for a pale-blue frock, and he let his curls grow long. Barefoot, he collected rocks and piled them high in a clumsy circle on an island in the Seine to repel invaders; to garrison himself from Roman soldiers who came looking for him. It was cold and lonely during the winter months, and France missed the warmth and comfort of his foster-brothers, especially Spain, snuggled close to him; he missed feeling safe.

It wasn't long, however, before he met a curious white-haired boy who accompanied a tall warrior. His name was Prussia—the boy; his father was called Germania—and he managed to penetrate France's defenses. "You call this a fortress?" he laughed, hands planted arrogantly on his hips. "This is just a pile of rocks, dummkopf. It'll never keep the Roman's out," he added, "that _is_ what you want, isn't it?"

France didn't know how to reply. He brandished a stick like a sword in defense, knowing that it was useless against Germania's cold, hard steel—like the unyielding look in his ice-blue eyes. These Germanics were not going to leave quietly, he realized, but he had no intention of being taken-in by another seemingly benign Empire. He would die before that happened. "How do I make myself stronger?" he asked Prussia, cautious of the other's wine-red eyes.

"How do you defeat Rome, you mean? That's easy: deny him."

France frowned. "Aren't you afraid of him?"

Prussia threw his head back and laughed loudly, dramatically. "Of course not! I'm not afraid of anyone! You're a funny boy— France, was is? You're so pathetically weak that I'm going to help you."

Prussia was loud and brash, an uncultured barbarian if ever France saw one, but he was incredibly strong and he kept his word. Without ulterior motives, the Germanics helped defend France's land against the Romans. They fought wildly, unschooled as the Roman's were, but effectively; unlike Roman soldiers, who fought in units, Prussia's kinsmen won fights by their individual merits. He was younger than France, but he swung his sword as if he was born to do so, and his face was always alight with glee. "I'll tell you a secret," he said proudly, whispering to France. "My Vater is going to defeat Rome. He's going to march into Rome's homeland and burn it! So don't worry, you'll never have to worry about Roman conquest ever again." And he pat France's back in friendship.

France nodded, forcing an amicable smile. But he couldn't deny that he felt sad about Prussia's confession. Rome, himself, had only wanted good things for France; he had fostered him for a long time, protecting him from the outside world. Unfortunately the corruption was within.

Eventually, with the help of the Germanic and wild Northmen tribes (who kept the Romans _very_ occupied), France managed to rebuild his fort and found his capital: Paris. He took what he had learned from Rome and mixed it with what he learned from the northerners, and dedicated himself to becoming a strong and independent nation. "I won't go back," he repeated, like a mantra. "I won't ever go back to being anyone's pet. I'll become my own nation: big and rich and strong. I'll have my own culture and customs; my own language; my own people to govern. I'll become the envy of Europe. I don't need Rome's protection anymore, I can do this myself."

France had already learned everything that Rome could teach him about commanding an Empire, the good—as well as the bad. "If I ever have conquests or colonies," he said to himself, "I'll _never_ hurt them, I promise."

* * *

One day, several decades later, France was walking along the shores of Calais when he saw something through the fog. Across the narrow channel was an island. _How could I not have noticed it before_? he wondered. _A new landform_,_ or a new country_? Cautiously he touched his sword's hilt. Out of necessity he had learned to fight, indirectly taught by the Germanic and Northmen tribesmen who—having helped him repel Rome—liked to bully him. But his swordsmanship was effective, if not schooled, and thus far he had managed to keep himself safe. But this new, potentially threatening island unnerved him; it was floating _very_ close to his homeland. He squinted through the ghastly fog, and saw:

A boy younger than he washing his hands in the water. He had short, wheat-blonde hair and a face smudged with mud, as if he had been pushed face-first into a mire. He looked like a vagabond splashing cold water up his arms, wearing mismatched, torn clothes; a hooded cloak dragged on the ground, too big for him. But his forest-green eyes were fiercely determined. As if he knew France was watching, the boy looked up and locked eyes with the Frenchman. And in that moment France was not afraid. He should have been anxious about the unknown, but something inside of him felt tender; he looked at the lonely boy and saw a reflection of himself before Rome, a kindred spirit. He sheathed his sword and called out to him: "Bonjour!"

The boy blinked. He stood up slowly, cautiously, and drew a dirk.

France tried again: "I'm France," he said smiling, conveying innocence. "Who are you?"

"I don't talk to mainlanders," the boy returned; his accent was unlike any France had ever heard. "Don't talk to me. I-I don't like strangers," he said, voice betraying fear. He flinched as France crossed the channel, holding up his dirk in defense. "What're you doing? I said—"

"I heard you," said France, surrendering his hands. "I'm not here to fight."

"Do you think I believe that? I wasn't born yesterday. Rome's already tried to—"

"Do I look Roman?" France interrupted, matter-of-fact. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated. He eyed the Frenchman skeptically, but in curiosity. He was a scrawny and malnourished boy, suspicious of strangers; he looked weak, but his hands—slight fingers—were hard, fingernails caked with dirt. He was a tough-fibered boy who was no stranger to toil; France could see it. They shared hardship, both having suffered at the hands of someone else; someone bigger and more powerful (though France's scars were less visible). If nothing else they trusted this fact in each other. Finally, the boy said: "I'm England."

"Enchanté," France replied.


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**B.C.E.**

**BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES**

* * *

**TWO**

**BRITISH ISLES**

Scotland— wait!" England cried, breathing hard. He was running as fast as he could, trying to catch his brother, but Scotland was faster, bigger, stronger, and determined to escape the Roman's pursuit. England could hear horses' hooves pounding the earth, racing them; big, powerful beasts carrying Roman soldiers. His young heart pounded simultaneously, fueled by exertion and blatant terror. He followed Scotland into the North, as the distance between them grew. He could just see his older brother's fiery-red hair shining in the pale sunlight, his tartan waving like a banner as he ran. "Scotland!" England screamed, jumping the rocks; racing across the moors. An eerie fog had descended, protecting the lowlands from intruders. England blinked, but he could no longer see Scotland.

"There! I've found him!" someone shouted in Latin.

England panicked. He whipped his head from left-to-right, searching for shelter. It was then that he spotted his brother, who had taken up a defensive position behind a long stonewall. Scotland's green eyes pierced England, wide and fearful. He reached out his hand, urging him: "England! C'mon, little brother— run!"

England ran, but the Roman's horses galloped faster. A soldier grabbed his hood, yanking him backwards. England screamed: "Scotland, help!" But Scotland shook his head in apology. As the Romans approached the wall, Scotland—claymore strapped to his strong, teenage back—took off into the highlands, where his Celtic tribesmen had the advantage. England watched him go, tears in his forest-green eyes; feeling abandoned. He struggled, kicking and punching at the Romans, but they held him tightly; shackling his wrists.

"Hybrid brat," they insulted him. "You're coming back to Rome with us."

"No! Let go— you bloody-fucking wankers! You fucking cocksuckers!" England raged, thrashing for freedom. The soldiers laughed at him, admiring his fighting spirit and his foul-tongued threats. However, when England sunk his teeth into his captor's skin, drawing blood, the soldier cursed loudly and released the boy in reflex. England could hear his fellows yelling angrily as he ran West, shackles jangling. "Wales, brother!" he yelled, approaching the rocky boarder. "Let me in, please!"

Wales' fair, yet defensive face appeared behind an arrow-loop; a fortress built into the mountain. "Stop right there, don't come any closer," he warned, leveling a loaded longbow at England. "You've brought the Romans here, England, you fool! Go away! Go away, or I swear I'll put an arrow through your skull!"

"Wales, please—"

A Roman soldier tackled England, crushing the skinny boy. In anger he lifted his sword and brought the hilt down hard against England's head. England momentarily blacked-out. When he blinked, he felt dizzy and disoriented. His senses felt numb; vaguely, he could see people yelling and gesturing—he saw several Romans stuck with Welsh arrows—but he heard nothing. Distracted, he felt a soldier lift him onto a horse; he felt the beast's fast-paced gait in retreat. He watched the landscape, his home, spinning by as his vision blurred. _They're taking me to Rome_, he thought, feeling sad. _I've been... conquered_. Bound and injured, head numbing, he passed-out.

* * *

**ROME'S HOUSE**

England met Rome in a big, lavish hall. He was sitting upon a dais, limbs sprawled-out languidly; a happy, half-drunk smile on his handsome face. "Welcome to Rome, little England. You've been a particularly troublesome conquest, did you know that? I applaud your fighting spirit," he said condescendingly, clapping his hands. He stood and approached the boy; England recoiled, glaring angrily. His head throbbed; he felt sick. "It's alright," Rome leaned toward him. "I don't want to hurt you; I want to help you. I'm going to civilize your homeland, you'll be the most northern stretch of my Empire. You're young and afraid, but I'll take good care of you."

"Sod-off, you liar!" England snapped. "I hate mainlanders! I won't become your pet!"

"Oh dear," said Rome, standing tall. He sighed. "You're rather unruly, aren't you? You've been left to your own devices for too long; you've learned too much from those wild Celts, a beastly sort," he added in disapproval. "It'll be very good for you to spend some time in the South. You'll enjoy it, life is much less toilsome here. The sun shines so warmly, and the food is wonderful; we have art, literature, and the true religion. And I'll teach you to—"

England spit at Rome's feet. "Send me home," he said defiantly. "I don't want anything you have."

England received another blow to the head, this time from behind. He tripped and fell forward, face-planting on the flagstone floor. His whole body shook; whether in rage or injury, he couldn't tell. Rome berated his soldiers for the abuse, but passively so. The big, strong-looking man studied England, frowning. England pushed himself onto his knees; as long as he could stand, he would. But as soon as he tried his stomach lurched and he vomited, gagging bile. He felt Rome's big, tender hand on his head, stroking in sympathy. _Don't touch me_! England thought, eyes watering. _I don't want your help_— _I don't need _anyone's _help_!_ Just leave me alone_!

* * *

**BRITISH ISLES**

After extensive debate and compromise, Rome agreed to let England return to the British Isles. He sent the boy home in a caravan, along with several hundred Roman soldiers, and an officially-appointed Governor. England, as Rome's satellite territory, would thereby be the stronghold from which the Romans would attack the Celts and Welsh to bring them into submission. England felt like a traitor as he returned to his island-home, guiding the Romans—letting them build fortresses and settlements; letting them implement Roman law—but his two brothers had already betrayed him; rejected him. _Why should I care what happens to them now_? _They abandoned me_.

They had been a family once: Scotland, the Irish twins, England, and Wales. Five brothers left alone by their Celtic parentage; left to grow-up independent and strong.

"Is that what you think?" Rome had asked him, not unkindly. "Do you really believe your blood is fully Celtic, young England? Don't you wonder why they call you a hybrid? Don't you know who your father is?"

England had chose to ignore Rome's bait, talking him into a false sense of security. He had long ago decided not to believe anything that Rome said, not even if it was about his own foggy heritage. It wouldn't make a difference; whether he was a bastard-born, or a younger half-brother to the others, his story was the same as theirs: their parents had left shortly after Wales' birth. England had been too young to remember, but Scotland and the Irish twins vaguely remembered their Celtic mother, who had been a beautiful red-haired warrior, unparalleled in battle. But, despite her kindness and love for her sons, she had disappeared. England would have liked to meet her; he loved the stories that Scotland told him. There was a time, as a small child, when England had been captivated by everything that Scotland had to say. He, as the eldest brother, had seemed so mature and wise; so knowledgeable. It was Scotland who had told England bedtime stories about redcaps and hobgoblins; Scotland who had taught England about the faeries and how dangerous they were. "But don't worry, little brother. I'll teach you how to live in harmony with the fair folk." Soon, having inherited his brothers' superstitions, young England was leaving milk for the brownies, and tossing salt over his shoulder to ward off malevolent spirits; walking in circles three times while chanting; and ever-careful not to insult the faeries, who dwelt in the wilderness. He became wary of witches, while secretly fascinated by the concept of magick. _If I could wield such power then nobody would bully me_, he had often thought, envious.

But despite the harsh climate—grey skies and rocky shores—England had had a relatively happy childhood, isolated from the mainland. Scotland had warned he and Wales about the mainlanders, how greedy and ruthless they were; he warned them not to trust anyone who wasn't family. "We're bound by blood, little brothers. That means we'll always take care of each other. Blood feuds are dangerous things, but let's promise to always unite against outsiders."

England had felt proud. Willingly he let Scotland cut his palm and then clasped hands with his four brothers. He had felt safe amongst them, as if—together united—they could defeat any enemy, repel any threat.

But they had been young and naive—especially England. As they grew-up, maturing into teenagers, they began to bicker and bully each other; they began to fight. They spit insults at each other, feeling slighted; feeling cheated. They fought over petty offenses, over land and livestock; over government; over rights and privileges. They squabbled over boarders, which had never separated them before. One day, Scotland, England, and Wales sat down and drew-up a map: complaining, yelling, and fighting—throwing insults, fists, and rocks at each other—until three separate boarders had been established. England had always thought that he had got the best piece of the island, until he realized just how difficult it was to defend. Scotland to the North; Wales to the West; mainland Europe to the East. England was completely surrounded—and defenseless. When the Romans had invaded his brothers had scattered, leaving him to fend for himself.

Now England stood amidst a Roman stronghold, a captive on his own soil. He watched from this vantage as the Romans tried—and failed—to conquer Scotland; Scotland, who fought like a devil. Fiercely, he painted his face in blue and wielded his claymore like the warriors of legend. England had never met a more stubborn nation; he refused to be defeated. As did Wales. England's younger brother fought strategically, using the mountains of his homeland to his advantage; ambushing Romans, and fighting on his own terms, never letting himself be drawn into open battle. It was a long time before word reached the British Isles of the Fall of Rome. Only then—goaded by threats and chased off the island—did the Romans finally abandon the prospect of civilizing such "a damnable place!" and they left.

* * *

One day England met a tall, pale warrior with ice-blue eyes. He was standing on the coast, overlooking the North Sea. Suspicious of strangers—especially those carrying weapons—he approached the stoic man. "Who are you?" England asked, trying to keep his voice calm; drawing himself up, trying to look taller and more intimidating.

The warrior looked down at him, face expressionless. His long, pale-blonde hair blew gently in the wind, like a sail. In a deep voice, he said: "Your hands are shaking, young one. Are you afraid?"

England swallowed. Ever since Rome's soldiers had hit him in the head, he often got the shakes; sometimes it was so bad that he couldn't even hold a quill. He resented Rome for this, and for everything else those soldiers had done. "No, I'm not," he lied. "Who are you— what do you want?"

"Germania," he said, walking forward. Inadvertently, England stepped back. The tall warrior looked capable; the coldness in his eyes was unnerving, unreadable. He reached down and gently placed his big-knuckled hand on England's wheat-blonde head. "You've grown-up a lot since I last saw you," he said. England's heart skipped a beat; he felt suddenly connected to this man, but he didn't know why. He waited for Germania to elaborate, but he didn't. Instead, he said: "You're weak; it's embarrassing. If you want to survive then you need to get stronger. I'll help you. I'll give you mercenaries; I'll teach you how to win a fight. Your childhood is over, England. It's time to grow-up."

* * *

Scotland tackled England, pushing his face into a mire. He straddled his younger brother's back, pressing down with his weight; pulling England's hair. England flailed. Scotland had relieved him of his broadsword, but he still had his dirk. Aggressively he stuck it between Scotland's ribs and listened to his brother howl in pain. Scotland rolled off of England, teeth clenched in anger. Collecting his broadsword, England crawled to his feet and took up a defensive position; legs spread, back arched, eyes alight with fury. "Go home!" he yelled, pointing North with his sword.

Scotland spit blood and stood, holding his ribs. One-handed, he pointed his claymore at England. "I know you have supplies; I need them," he said, gaunt-faced in hunger. His harvest had been blighted, leaving his population to starve. "I'm not leaving without food."

England clenched his sword's hilt—malnourished and pale-faced. He shook his head; his stomach growled. "No, I need it." He needed every potato, every sprig of grain, every runt of a lamb; otherwise his clansmen would have nothing to eat for the winter. "Why can't you just eat fish?" he asked. "The North is plentiful—"

"Because those fucking Northmen are fishing the waters empty!" Scotland snapped impatiently. He rarely felt intimidated, but England could see the anxiety in his brother's eyes when he spoke of the Northmen; the Vikings who pillaged his lands. England was afraid of them too. They were ruthless fighters, they seemed to enjoy it. They— "Fuck!" Scotland cursed. In an instant, he fled to higher-ground.

England turned around and saw them: Denmark and Norway. "Bollocks!" he said, and followed Scotland. "Just this once, let's fight together." England _really_ didn't want to get beat-up again; the Vikings were merciless in their punishment. "Please, Scotland—" But his plea fell on deaf ears. Scotland wasn't listening; he was busy defending against the Northmen's attack. England dodged Denmark's grab for him, but his blows were too weak to complete. The Danish warrior was too practised—he even laughed, enjoying the adrenalin rush. England leapt down in escape and crashed into: "Prussia!" Prussia grinned in greeting—and then punched England in the face. His nose gushed blood, mixing with the drying mud. _Fuck— get off_! he cursed, swatting at Prussia. It was then that Scotland grabbed him from behind, throwing him down; he hit the ground hard. His hands started shaking, so violently that he couldn't hold his broadsword and it fell. The others laughed at him, pitching insults at his weakness, his filthy appearance, the babyish tears that flooded his eyes. Red-faced in anger, England wiped his face; feeling helpless.

"Shut up!" he screamed, clenching his fists. "Just shut up! You're all fucking dicks!" England found himself on the ground beneath Denmark's boot; a stone cut his cheek. His body ached; beaten bloody. He should've just taken the abuse quietly; that would've been wise. But he didn't. He had had enough of their bullying. He said: "Someday I'll be the strongest! I'll be bigger than all of you combined!"

Scotland rolled his eyes, thinking him overdramatic. Denmark laughed. Prussia cocked a silver-white eyebrow, and said: "_You'll_ be the biggest?" Even Norway's lip curled into the ghost of a grin. "You hallucinating again or what, England?" Prussia poked. "This kid's fucking cracked."

Like a kicked dog, England growled. He was tired of feeling undermined; tired of their condescension, just because he was the smallest. _Someday I'll be big enough that they wouldn't dare hit me_, he thought. They laughed at him now—he expected them to—but someday they wouldn't. England was underdeveloped and under-populated. He was young, weak without Rome's protection, and still less experienced than his brothers, housemates, and neighbours at warfare. _They don't see me as a threat_,_ they think I'm too small and helpless_. _But I won't be small forever_. "I'll be the biggest Empire in the whole world someday!" he vowed, determined. "Even bigger than Rome!"

* * *

Bloody and bruised, England knelt down on the channel's shore and splashed cold water up his skinny arms, washing his face clean of mud and blood; scrubbing his filthy hands. His clothes were threadbare and needed laundering, but, lifting the hem of his tunic, he stopped. He felt uneasy, as if someone was watching him. The last thing he wanted was to be ambushed while stark-naked. Subtly he looked from left-to-right, but didn't see anyone. Then, in accident, he looked across the channel. A boy was standing there, only a few centuries older than he. He was—in all honestly—a gorgeous boy, with pretty long hair and a lean figure; blue eyes like precious stones watched him curiously. Then his lips curled into a lovely smile, and he called out: "Bonjour!"

_What a stupid-sounding accent_, England thought critically. He stood up slowly and drew his trusty dirk. He was about to reply—to warn the boy off—but was interrupted:

"I'm France," said the boy, deceptively innocent. "Who are you?"

"None of your fucking business," England muttered. Louder, he said: "I don't talk to mainlanders. Don't talk to me. I-I don't like strangers," he said, hating his stutter; trying to quell his shaking hands. _I'm not afraid_, he lied to himself. But he flinched as France crossed the channel and held up his dirk in defense. "What're you doing? I said—"

"I heard you," said France arrogantly; surrendering his hands in good-faith. "I'm not here to fight."

England almost laughed. "Do you think I believe that?" he spat, thinking the boy a complete idiot. "I wasn't born yesterday. Rome's already tried to—"

"Do I look Roman?" he interrupted, slightly perturbed. England looked at him, scanning him from head to toe; he was unarmed—_stupid_—and well-spoken, as if he had been given formal education. And he was clean. England was skeptical of strangers, of course, but curious as well; he hadn't met anyone who hadn't tried to attack him. France, however, looked weak. His hands were long-fingered and clean, not hands that toiled in the fields or fisheries, nor the type that spent hours training for combat. _He's not my blood_, England thought, feeling loyal to the concept of blood, despite his brothers' antagonism. But there was something about this long-haired boy that made England pause and reconsider him. France looked lonely, and, though his body was well-preserved, there was sadness in his blue eyes that spoke of abuse. If nothing else, England trusted this fact; that he and the Frenchman shared something nobody else understood. So when France asked him: "What's your name?" England said: "England."

"Enchanté," France replied. "May I sit with you for a while?"

England lowered his dirk. He nodded: "Yes."


	4. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**B.C.E.**

**BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES**

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

**19th CENTURY**

England poked his head into the nursery. The boys were sleeping soundly; he could hear their soft, rhythmic breaths. Quietly he slipped inside and sat down on the edge of the bed beside America. The boy was lying on his back, skinny limbs spread like a starfish; small shoulders rising and falling as he snored kitten-soft snores. England leaned down and brushed the feathery wheat-blonde hair off his forehead; America squinted in sleep, then relaxed. England smiled and reached across him to where Canada slept. He was lying on his side, curled-up into a ball, and hugging his pillow; he had always liked to hug things in his sleep. His pale-blonde curls splayed across the bed-sheets, looking soft and peaceful as he breathed; eyelids flickering dreamily. Gently England touched his forefinger to Canada's rosy cheek.

"They're sweet when they're asleep," said France quietly, leaning in the doorframe. England glanced back at him in surprise. France chuckled. He walked into the room and knelt by the bedside, beside Canada. "I cherish these moments, when they're asleep— quiet and well-behaved; they look like such angels," he smiled, playing with Canada's curls. "But then they wake up and they're exhausting; they have so much energy— they would've made great warriors if they had been born into antiquity. Instead they fight with other children because we haven't socialized them properly; they're shy of strangers." He sighed. "I love them so much, but sometimes I think I'm too old to be raising such young colonies." His sapphire-blue eyes looked guiltily at England. "Does that make me a bad parent?"

Hesitantly, England licked his lips. "Nobody said raising colonies was easy. And, honestly, we didn't have the best role-models: Rome"—_too indulgent_, _too corrupt_—"Germania"—_too harsh_;_ he was gone more often than not_—the Vikings"—_thieves and bullies_—"and Scotland"—_for all of his talk of blood-bonds_,_ he tried to beat me into submission_, England thought. "I never wanted to be like them, but I'm afraid that I've become a little like all of them combined," he admitted. "I grew-up in isolation, and I'm fucked up. You grew-up surrounded by nations, and you're fucked up." He shrugged. "I know it's my fault the boys are antisocial; I know they're my responsibility, but sometimes I don't know what to do with them. Sometimes I think keeping them here is better than the alternative— at least they're safe. I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, but there are very few things I actually regret. If I hadn't taken North America when given the chance, I wouldn't have either of them," he said in example. "I won't let anyone take them from me now; just like Rome, I'd rather die than part with my colonies. I love them, but a part of me is afraid of becoming what I was as a child, of growing smaller; of being swallowed up by those more powerful. As long as I have my Empire, that won't happen. My Empire protects me as much as I protect them."

France nodded. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. England knew that he understood. They had shared that secret fear since childhood; of being conquered and forced to belong to someone else. "Are we hypocrites then?" he asked thoughtfully. "We both refuse to live as someone else's territories, yet we fight to hold onto the boys; we're very possessive of them," he nodded to America and Canada. "I swore, once, that if I ever had colonies I would take care of them. I would never hurt them. I just... I hope I've kept my word. When they look at me, scowling, like they did earlier when I put them to bed, I feel insecure. Above all, I don't want them to hate me."

"They're young, but you can't always coddle them," England advised—_though_,_ what do I know_? _I certainly wasn't ever coddled_. He tried again: "They're unruly; they'll only become more so as they age, but they don't hate you. Colonies"—as children—"need to be disciplined and spoiled in equal terms, I think. Every time you scold them, just as every time you treat them, you're teaching them. It's not neglect, it's a kindness..." He shook his head. "I can't explain it. It just feels like the right thing to do. It's our responsibility as their guardians to take care of them; they won't always like it, but I think it's for the best. I can't imagine they would ever hate you," he reassured France. "They love you very much, you—" He pursed his lips; swallowed —"you're a good father, France."

"How very sentimental of you, Angleterre," France teased, but he was smiling. "You know," he added, as they tucked the blankets around the boys, "despite your being, well... _you_, you're not a horrible father either."

England cocked an eyebrow. "Careful, frog-eater. That almost sounded like a compliment."

Together, they left the nursery.

* * *

It was after midnight when France, lying beside England in bed—appropriately clothed, thank-you very much!—heard the doorknob turn. The soft patter of lightweight socked feet met his ears, and then tiny fingers tugged his shirtsleeve. Drowsily he opened his eyes, and smiled. "Mes chéris," he whispered, rewarded with a shy smile and those big, violet eyes he so loved. America stood just behind Canada, holding his brother's hand; brow creased in worry. France sighed in waking and pushed himself onto his elbows, waking England. England's head fell from resting on France's shoulder and hit the pillow, producing a grunt of surprise. He blinked, squinting in the darkness, then relaxed when he saw the boys. Softly, Canada said:

"Je suis désolé, pères. America is sorry too. Can we—"

"Can we sleep with you?" America burst, lip curling under; threatening tears.

France swallowed a coo of affection and, instead, lifted America into his arms. "Of course."

"C'mon, love. Don't give me those big crocodile tears," said England, tucking America in beside him; smiling at Canada as he was lifted into the bed as well. They placed the boys in the space between them, then closed the gap, each holding the distraught little colonies. Feeling safe and loved, America and Canada fell instantly back to sleep.

Above their silky heads, rich wheat-blonde and kitten-soft curls, France smiled at England. "I guess we're not so very bad after all."

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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